She pouted her pretty lips saucily.
"Forty—millions—of vermin," cried Furneaux; "that's worse than Carlyle."
Hylda Prout's swift hands plied among her papers. She made no answer; and Furneaux suddenly stood up.
"Well, you will mention to the valet and the others how the matter stands as to Mr. Osborne. He is simply avoiding the crowd—that is all. Good-day."
Hylda Prout rose, too, and Furneaux saw now how tall she was, well-formed and lithe, with a somewhat small face framed in that nest of red hair. Her complexion was spoiled and splashed with freckles, but otherwise she was dainty-featured and pretty—mouth, nose, chin, tiny, all except the wide-open eyes.
"So," she said to Furneaux as she put out her hand, "you won't let me know where Mr. Osborne is? I may want to write to him on business."
"Why, didn't I tell you that he didn't write to me?"
"That was only a blind."
"Dear me! A blind.... It is the truth, Miss Prout."
"Tell that to someone else."